gone out past recall, she found herself asking the question, "What if he had had to face life, instead of death?" Her eyes had been too keen for Muriel to veil her poor little secret, and she asked herself if Jack himself would have cared for life, if life had in time revealed to him the fact that the love given him by the woman he called wife was only a sweet and tender pity and a sisterly affection. He had died in the joy and beauty of a new-found faith and with his glad eyes blind to love's mistakes. Truly, she thought, the poor child, lying dry-eyed and horror-stricken in her darkened room, was the more to be pitied of the two.

With a sigh she turned again to her roses for comfort.

BOOK II

WAS IT LOVE?

CHAPTER I

CUPID MISCALCULATES

N Adirondack lake, in the stillness of a perfect

evening in late fall, is a wonder of beauty and colour. The waters are so placid that every shade and tone, every delicate tracery of branch, twig, and leaf is given back, as from a burnished mirror; so deep in places one seems to look into unfathomed, black mystery, and yet so clear that every swish of the paddle sends up a crystal shower of brilliants.

On a certain day to which our story has come every autumnal tint was to be seen. The forest had put on its richest glory, fiery crimson maples and slender golden birches leaned over the margin of the lake, staining the mirror as with gold and blood, while, here and there, the silver of the beeches or the copper of the scrub-oak added their touch of beauty. It was the sunset hour. How tranquil and glorious! In sky and cloud the pageant of beauty flamed and burned, while from the forest and water the wonderful haze,

that so beautifies our Indian-summer days, spoke of warmth and comfort still holding off the chill of frost, so soon to come. It was quiet, not with the dead quiet of winter, but with that murmuring stillness that soothes you as a lullaby soothes a sleepy child. Countless insects sang and droned in undertones, swallows swept low over the water, uttering faint cries of joyous freedom, while once and again a startling note came from the honk, honk of travellers flying southward or the strange weird laugh of a distant loon.

A canoe lay motionless in the glowing pathway of the setting sun. In the stern a girl, dressed all in white, lay back languidly, dabbling one hand in the water. She was following with intense gaze a flock of travelling birds, strung out like a black arrow-head against a golden cloud. Her face was thin and sensitive, showing clearly the marks of recent illness, but the smile on the lips and the tranquillity in the eyes spoke of a realisation of present comfort and an intense enjoyment of the beauties of nature. The sunset made an aureole of her hair, and her very unconsciousness of self seemed to add to her grace and beauty.

The man who sat facing her, with the paddle at rest in his hand, was gazing very intensely at the picture before him. He could do so with impunity